Snog It Better
by Gosangoku
Summary: America anticipated that England would be poignant and irritable after his loss. Naturally, he'd volunteer to step up and be the hero! — US/UK.


The sound of fierce cheers and poignant boos ran through his ears and left an odd ringing sound echoing around him. He stood still, frozen in the middle of the pitch as German players pat him on the back and tried to hide their pleasure behind kind words and condolances, but he heard nothing. He stared ahead, eyes wide in utter disbelief as he saw his country's supporters drooping, faces falling and their beautiful red and white flags falling to the floor. Some looked infuriated; their faces painted either red from fury, or white from horror. All looked disheartened and more than a little ticked off as they began muttering to each other, or screaming about the stupid referee and his wrong decision.

He barely noticed falling to his knees until it happened, and he could feel his nails digging into the turf below. He gritted his teeth before he felt a lump in his throat, and then clamped his teeth down on his lip. _Damn it_, he thought as she clenched his eyes shut, fighting against the burning sensation that built up inside of them. _Damn it. I lost..._

_I lost._

The two words echoed in his mind, repeating themselves over and over until he felt pain spark in his skull. Letting out a muffled groan, just to prevent himself from screaming out loud, he let go of the ground and grabbed his head, lurching forward and growling, the sound rumbling in his throat just like emotions bombarded his heart.

_I lost._

He always lost now, didn't he? Ever since... since _that _time, he couldn't win anything. His days as an imperious empire who ruled the seas and controlled various colonies was long gone, and now he was just a plain island nation infamous for rain and overcast skies. He never did anything worthwhile anymore, his only accomplishments always being dismissed when America or Japan invented something astonishing again...

"Kirkland, get off the field!" a voice shouted, somehow zipping through the white noise and blood pumping through the Brit's ears. Blinking slowly, he raised his head from the ground to see the referee glaring irritably at him, the German players hugging and patting each other on the back in congratulations, and his team slinking away with their heads hung low as Capello rubbed his forehead, a dark scowl decorating his aging features.

Feet appeared in his line of vision when he had once more lowered his eyes, and he blinked away the burning sensation building up inside of them. "Arthur," a German accent said gruffly, sounding hesitant. "You played well," he said stiffly, and then paused. "If it helps, even I believe that second goal should have been allowed..."

"It's fine," Arthur replied, finally raising his gaze and offering Ludwig a watery smile. "I would've still lost anyway," he muttered, and breathed in sharply after his voice hitched. "You... um... You played well also, Ludwig. I'd... rather lose to you than anyone else," he said, and he meant that. Germany were one of England's main rivals when it came to football. Besides that, if he had beaten them, he would have probably played Argentina and lost then anyway. But even so, those thoughts did nothing to cheer him up...

The German shifted almost imperceptively, shuffling to his other foot as a sign of how awkward he felt, standing above a poignant Brit. "Arthur..." he began again, only to be cut off by a whistle.

"All players off the field!" the ref cried once again, sounding increasingly pissed off. Arthur found himself growing more irate at the blind bastard, and dug his nails deeper into the turf, before finally allowing himself to stand. His legs felt heavy and so weak, but he lifted himself up as if it was nothing. Taking a deep breath, he raised his gaze to meet Ludwig's eyes and tried to dismiss any odd feelings he felt whilst doing so. The man's icy blue hues never failed to make him uncomfortable, but nonetheless...

"Thank you, Ludwig," he mumbled quietly, offering a hasty nod to show how grateful he was. "I suppose we'd best be off now." He stopped for a second and bowed his head. "Well... good luck. In the rest of the tournament," he supplied, stretching a hand out.

The German nodded thankfully and took his hand, shaking it firmly once, and then pulling back. "Thank you, Arthur," he replied, and then waited for Arthur to make the first move. The shorter man nodded again, and then turned away to make his way off of the field, responding with his own glare when the referee shot him a poisonous look. He spared a glance at his team being given a small pep talk by the manager, sighed, shook his head, and departed for the changing rooms.

His footsteps echoed through the empty hallway he entered, although he could still hear fans mulling about and news crews informing the world of the outcome. Hanging his head in shame and defeat, he entered the room, grabbing his shirt and tossing it on the floor uncaringly, yanking off his shorts and briefs**(1)**, throwing his trainers and shoes away, and then stalking into the showers. The slightly chilly water blasted against his skin, cascading down heavily and making him shudder at the heavy tingling sensation. He could feel the sweat, grime and stray blood where he'd fallen being washed away. Unfortunately, the water did nothing to wash away the unbearable defeat and mortified feelings hanging over his head.

"Fuck," he whispered, clenching his eyes shut and clenching his fists. He'd been utterly useless this year. He tied with America, the country who didn't even call football _football_, not to mention the country who didn't give a fuck about it; he tied, no goals, with Alegria; barely won with 1-0 to Slovenia, and still came in second to America out of his group. On his first match in the knock out stages, he'd lost to Germany, and... damn, he was Germany's _rival_. He'd always put up good fights before, and the statistics were in his favour. How had he lost that terribly? Three goals down? It was... it was... "Fuck!" he screamed, voice breaking, as he smashed his clenched fists against the steamy tiles of the shower wall. His breath hitched again, and he felt a tingling feeling in his nose as his eyes burned.

He'd never hear the fucking end of it. Never. Francis would have a bloody field day. The cocky Spanish bastard was probably living it up, knowing he was one of the best at football. Alfred... Alfred just plain didn't give a damn!

He felt another suppressed sob wrack his body, and clenched his shaking fists against the wall as his shoulders shook. "Damn it," he whispered. "Stop it. Stop fucking crying," he gasped, feeling ashamed with himself. Who cried over a little game...?

_It meant more to me than that. This isn't "just a game" to me..._ he thought, slowly opening his eyes to stare at the white walls, shoulders dropping lethargically. "This was more than that... Without this, I feel... worthless."

"You're never worthless," someone said, and he jumped in shock when he heard the voice. He moved to whirl around, fist ready to punch whoever it was in the face, and then prepared to raise his knee when his fist was caught, only to freeze, mouth opening and eyes widening as he met stern sky blue eyes.

"Alfred...?"

"I had this whole lecture planned out in my mind and everything for this moment," the American murmured as he took the Brit's other fist and wound his fingers through it. Arthur blinked and frowned in confusion, opening his mouth to speak, but was silenced by the other man's lips on his, and soon found himself shutting his mouth. "But then I realised it'd be, like, the most hypocritical thing ever since, y'know... I get like this after baseball games and stuff," he admitted, smiling sheepishly, and Arthur's lips twitched into some sort of poignant smile in return. The lopsided grin slipped off of the younger man's face, and he leaned forward, touching his nose to the Englishman's. "I know Green messed up our match for you, but thinking of that... I wouldn't have tied if he had caught it, and that was some freak mistake that we all make sometimes. You were unlucky during your second game, but again, we all have our moments. You won against Slovenia. If I hadn't have notched two goals during my game, you'd have won in our group."

Green eyes flickered downwards, and a small sigh escaped his wet, swollen lips. "And today's match against Germany?" he enquired ruefully, and leaned his head against Alfred's wet t-shirt clad shoulder tiredly. "That was just horrendous..."

He felt the American's now big hands squeeze his own calloused ones, and tried to suppress the memories of Alfred's small hands clutching onto him so desperately when he was so much younger, immediately bursting the memory as if it were a bubble.

"You played well," Alfred replied, voice surprisingly soft, "But you just couldn't beat Germany. I mean, I'm not gonna sugar-coat it, but I'm gonna be truthful. You did real good, but Germany just did a bit better this time around." He felt the man slump again, and pushed him back slightly, pressing the Brit against the wall as he regarded him from a close proximity, staring right into the shimmering emerald eyes. "You've played him loads of times before, and you've won more times. Germany just notched up one more," he said gently, brushing his lips against the smaller man's jaw softly. "There's always next time... Besides," he said, beaming brightly, "Now we can be losers together!"

Despite himself, Arthur's lips twitched again. Unable to stop himself, he gave into the rumbling, tickly feeling in his chest and let laughter spill out from his lips as salty tears slipped out from beneath his eyelids, almost unnoticable behind the veil of water shooting out from the shower above them. "You idiot," he gasped, clutching Alfred's hands tightly as he smiled up at the man.

"Says the guy who's cryin' over a game of soccer," the American replied with an awkward smile, raising their intertwined hands to rub away some of the tears that were immediately replaced by shower water.

"Says the bloke who wept over his loss to his brother during a hockey match," Arthur retorted haughtily, attempting to sound as posh as possible. "And you aren't even much of a hockey fan."

He shrugged in response. "And I don't give a damn about soccer," he added, "But I was still kinda cheerin' for you," he admitted with a sheepish smile, a shy blush dusting his cheeks. It deepened considerably when warm lips pressed against one of his cheeks, and he blinked owlishly at the Englishman when he drew back with a bright blush.

"That... That's very sweet of you," the older man murmured quietly, not knowing what else to say. He faked a cough and averted his eyes. "Um..." he began awkwardly, silenced once more when warmth slipped away from one of his hands and slid under his chin, tipping his face up. He met bright blue eyes again, the same ones that always seemed to see right through him and make him feel so exposed. He tried to look away again, but found his own eyes glued onto the other's. "Al..." he breathed, eyes sliding closed as the taller man's lips fell against his own, moulding together perfectly. He felt a warm tongue slip between his lips, gently prying them apart, and he sighed into the kiss, subserviently opening his mouth to let the foreign tongue in... only to immediately retaliate and initiate a battle for dominance, if only to piss the younger man off, being the sadistic masochist he was. It had the intended effect, as he shivered when he felt a growl reverburating in the other man's throat, and soon felt teeth grazing against his tongue, then the American's pushing forcefully against his own, sluggishly shoving it back as he took control of the kiss.

He was prepared to fight back, only to be caught off guard when he was roughly shoved against the wall behind him, hands pinned. He was about to snap at the American for it, but was unable to when that same tongue infiltrated his mouth once more and began roaming the hot cavern, colliding with his own organ, although he was working primarily on auto-pilot due to the younger man's distracting tactics.

They eventually pulled apart when the sound of shouts and groans entered their ears. Their eyes flickered open and they stared into one another's, breaths fast and shallow as they remained clinging to each other.

"So," Alfred said, effectively breaking the silence. Arthur dreaded his next words as his sultry smirk evolved into a goofy lopsided grin. "No shower sex this time?"

The England players blinked in confusion when they heard loud screams of pain inside of the showers. They decided to wash up when they got home...

**O-o-O-o-O**

_**Axis Powers Hetalia **_**belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

**Sorry it's so short and late. I was busy angsting all the time, plus I was debating whether or not to incorporate a lemon. I decided against it as I've previously written lemons and plan to do so in the future, and I'd rather they didn't become too repetitive. In addition to that, I'm as lazy as fuck, so...**

**Anyways, yes, this was written for... England's... loss... before...**

**... OTL. I'm gonna angst again, brb.**

**Besides that, I am working on TnO and my other fics, just be patient please. I'm also writing a few oneshots, including a UKxUS one... Hurr~! But another I'm writing is srz bsnz, so... yeah, basically, I'm writing moar angst.**

**Other than that, please check out **_**Suzume-Chiyu**_**'s super omega awesome fics!**

**... Oh, God. That wasn't very English of me. FFFFUUU-**

**Also, I just finished colouring a pirate!UKxUS for you, and shall be sending it with the USxUK beach one. Hehe~**

**Anyway, everyone, I've been OOC enough for now. Later.**


End file.
